


blood shatters, glass bleeds

by colormemotional



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron is so done, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Creepy, Ghosts, Horror, Trans Aaron Burr, alex is like barely in here but its important to this fucked up plot ok, basically john is a ghost and he finds enjoyment in haunting aaron, it is just (very very very)lightly mentioned, its fucking creepy???, martha needs to calm her shit, not rlly tho, save him, the plot is so fucked off, there's no satisfying ending, this is not lams story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-11-15 13:29:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11231982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colormemotional/pseuds/colormemotional
Summary: Since Aaron's move to South Carolina, suspicious things have been happening.





	blood shatters, glass bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> holy fuck guys I'm back again with more trash except this time its not shippy! I was trying to take a crack at some creepy stuff, and came up with this. This is a modern verse, but things r kind of wonky(you'll see) 
> 
> anyways, here's my thing, follow me on tumblr and all the cool crap. my user is anxiouspencils. hope you like this.

Aaron was a simple man. He did things on schedule, never straying. He was charismatic, quiet, and intelligent. He did things by the book, and always waited for his potential to reach his long dreamed of success. 

 

He lived in an old apartment complex in the city, crumbling brick walls and iron over the doors. He’d moved there because the rent was so cheap. The landlady had told him he was a fool for moving into the building, he’d be out within the next week. There had been a ghost haunting the premises since before she bought the building, and most people got spooked and didn’t stay long. Aaron had shrugged it off, he didn’t have the time to worry about a ‘ghost’ that didn’t even exist. Ghosts weren’t real, they were made up stories about late night noises and chairs moving on their own. Mythical. A trap for the public to spend their money on stuff like _ Ghostbusters _ and  _ Paranormal Activity.  _

 

A week into his stay, he found the three story building was almost completely deserted. There was only a few people other than himself that lived here, but most of them looked well into their fifties and were unresponsive to any of his hellos. After a brief look around, he found he was even the only one that lived on his floor. 

 

Work took up most of his free time. He was new to South Carolina, the furthest he’d been down south since Virginia. Aaron often moved around; there was just something in starting over in a new place that always gave him a new spring of confidence. Law work wasn’t the most interesting if you kept yourself in one spot for very long. 

 

Usually, he’d come home deep in the night, yawning and not even bothering to make dinner before he fell asleep. On quite a few occasions, he forgot to take off his binder before he made into his bed and woke up with aching ribs. 

 

It was Tuesday morning that he found himself nursing a cup of fast cooling coffee at the small round table he had set up in his dining room-slash-kitchen. He was scrolling through the news on his phone, checking the time wisely. There was a feeling that overcame him saying it would be a slow day at the firm. He hummed. He hadn’t had one of those in awhile. He finished a paragraph talking about a bill that was taking forever to pass, and checked the time in the corner off his screen. Six twenty-seven. A loud crash rang through the room. 

 

Aaron shot up, nerves getting the best of him, and let out a squeak. From his spot at the table, he could see a glass cup lying broken on the kitchen floor. He stood up, running into the kitchen to inspect the mess. The cup lay in a million shards littering the old, cracked tile of the floor. Looking around, Aaron saw no cupboard that it could have came from open. Did he even have glass cups? Aaron reached down, gently taking a larger piece of the fractured glass, and gazed at it’s transparent surface, each curve and engraved design that swirled around the thick glass reminded him of handy work you wouldn’t normally see in today’s market. He ran his fingertips lightly around the pointed ends, shivering when it accidentally drew blood. Aaron sucked at the pin-prick, tasting the iron rich blood on his tongue, decided to clean up the mess before he was late for work. 

 

Nothing happened out of the usual until later that month, on the morning of the twenty-seventh. Aaron had woken up in the middle of the night, a pain in his chest, only to realize he’d left his binder on once again. He took it off, shoulders shaking in the cold night air. Cursing, he got up to turn on the heating. Aaron felt around the nightstand surface for his glasses, only to accidentally push them onto the carpet. He groaned. Kneeling onto the floor, the man squinted through the darkness to find his glasses. “Stupid fucking useless eyes,” Aaron muttered.

 

He felt along the rough carpet, only for his palm to land on something cold and round and definitely not his glasses. Clasping it in his hand, he felt it’s heavy, relatively dentless surface. “What the fuck?” Aaron questioned, holding the heavy object in one hand, now quickly searching for his spectacles with the other. He finally found them, slipping them onto his nose. Blinking down at the object, he still couldn’t see much in the dim light of his room. Aaron padded to the light switch, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust. He sat back down on his bed and eyed the now visible object. Running it along his thumb and forefinger, he saw that it was dark in color, and upon further inspection, looked like it had been through hell. It was discolored to a lighter shade in some places, little spots littering the surface like it had been rolled in gravel. A embossed line encircled half of it-a seam of sorts. What Aaron found the most mysterious, though, was the dark red stain that coated most of it. 

 

Finding sleep useless now that he was so awake, Aaron pulled out his laptop and set it in his lap, laying the sphere-like object beside him. He found google, pulling up a new tab. He pondered what to type at first, then decided to start with basics and work from there.

 

_ small heavy ball,  _ He wrote and punched the enter key, and a million different searches came up. He went to images, finding tons of different types of balls the further he scrolled. Until he saw it. A picture of a dark, iron looking ball with similar dents to the one he had found. All that was missing was the red stain, which Aaron figured not all of them came with. He clicked on the photo, clicked on the link to the site it came from, and was surprised. The page loaded, and Aaron let out a gasped at the url:  [ http://www.relicman.com/artillery ](http://www.relicman.com/artillery) . _ Artillery _ . He searched the page, and came up on a description of the peculiar object: a musket ball. A musket ball in his apartment? So the dark stain- a  _ used musket ball inside of his apartment.  _ Aaron felt chills go up his spine, The cold night air suddenly dropping a few degrees. He grasped the ball in his palm, the old lead feeling dense in his hand. Aaron opened up a new tab, typing out another search. 

 

_ are musket balls still in use.  _ Several articles popped up; all saying the same thing. Not anymore. Most popular in the eighteenth and nineteenth century. In images, there was several paintings of soldiers from the American Revolutionary and Civil wars. Musket balls, how to date a musket ball, types of musket balls. Aaron took in a chilling breath, like spearmint between his teeth. He shut his laptop abruptly, scooting away from it. He took the ball in hand, placing it on his nightstand. Aaron tried to calm his breathing as he fumbled for his phone and tapped it on, displaying that he only had one hour until his alarm went off. 

 

He got to work early that morning. His binder pained his sides with every bend. 

 

Aaron kept the heavy ball on his nightstand. He didn’t know what to do about it- he could never bring himself to throw it away. Every day he’d wake up, the ball would stare back at him in it’s blood stained glory. He would lay down to bed, and he felt the presence of the ball like two yellow eyes on his back. 

 

The people that he lived around were barely people, they never talked to him or one another, and he hardly even saw them. He felt alone. 

 

 

The months went by. It went from winter to spring to summer, and he found himself sweating to death in the southern heat. Days ended and turned to dusk later now, and every day at the firm became more packed with work as the ‘vacation’ season progressed. Storm season came, but he found the natives were quite used to the constant weather warnings.The month of July began, came and went, and thoughts of the musket ball began to slip from Aaron’s mind. It was a calm time. 

 

August started; and soon the trees began to shed leaf by leaf. Charleston was a beautiful place during this time of year. Aaron was impressed. 

 

On the fifteenth of the month, he got out of his morning shower to the word ‘DEAREST’ written in cursive lettering across his foggy bathroom mirror. He’s never left his apartment faster. 

 

The fifteenth was his strangest day yet. Everywhere he went, every time he tried to read something, the word  _ dearest  _ never ceased to pop up. He found himself with a migraine, holding his head over a set of case files that managed to have the cursed word littering each sentence. 

_ Dearest, dearest, dearest.  _ He was so close to blowing his top. 

 

A co-worker of his, Alexander, who he often found himself arguing with, even asked if he was okay. He’d shoved the papers at the man’s face, groaning as the force of his headache persisted. “Dearest is everywhere.”

 

Alexander only handed the files back, shaking his head and clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, man. Are you doing alright?” 

 

Aaron shot his head up, scanning the words that printed each piece of parchment with wide eyes. Nothing. He was seeing things. Aaron let out a breathy laugh, smacking himself a little too hard on the forehead. Alexander flinched. “Oh, I’m fine. Peachy.” Alexander tried to laugh along, but quieted down. It was bizarre to see his coworker so distraught. 

 

“Do you want to go for drinks or something after work? You look like you could use it.” Aaron squinted at his coworker’s sudden kindness, and was about to turn him down when he remembered the  _ DEAREST _ across his mirror glaring at him and the previously forgotten musket ball resting on his bedside table. The curves of the fine glass under his fingers, the blood it drew. 

 

“I wouldn't mind a drink, now that I think about it.” He replied. 

 

Alexander got him drunk on southern whiskey, even if he’d only planned to have a beer or two instead. They laughed and became louder, more rambunctious and carefree the more alcohol they filled their bloodstream with. Then Alexander began crying, and Aaron was too drunk to understand he slurred mumblings. He helped the man up, called the both of them a cab and pushed Alexander in. The entire way, he continued to cry. It was ugly, snot came out of his nose and his salty tears mixed with the spilled whisky on his clothing. Aaron waited patiently. 

 

_ “My, dearest. Dearest L-”  _ Alexander began as he sobbed into his hands, and Aaron suddenly felt more sober than he had been all night. Dearest. That word again. It wouldn’t leave him alone. He shoved Alex hard from where the man was crying on him. 

 

“Get off me! Don’t say that word again. I swear if I hear that word one more time I’m gonna lose it!” Aaron raised his voice, the cab driver giving him a look. Alexander only stared at him, still unbelievably drunk. The cab driver coughed, having reached Aaron’s stop. Aaron handed him probably more money than what he needed to and wobbled out of the car.

 

He clambered into his apartment, shrugging off his clothes and binder. He fell onto his bed clad only in his boxers, and fell into a fitful sleep with chantings of the word _ dearest _ forming monstrous nightmares in his mind. 

 

The days after the fifteenth were considerably less miserable than the date itself, but they didn’t go back to the calm he’d gotten so used to. On twentieth, he walked out of his apartment in the morning only to run head first into another person. He apologized profusely, picking up the basket of laundry the person had been carrying. He handed it to them and smiled, apologizing again. 

 

‘I’m sorry, it was all my fault. Should’ve been looking.” He held the basket out to the stranger, “I’m Aaron Burr, you are…?” That was when he caught sight of the person’s face, a woman presumably, She looked fragile, skin like glass waiting to break.  _ Glass shards, on his kitchen floor.  _ Her hair was long and thick, auburn strands coming out of a pony tail. Her eyes were wide, shoulders shaking and sundress rumbled. She stared at him a moment longer before taking the basket from him and pulling it against her dress. 

 

“Martha Manning.” She muttered, pushing past him and resuming her walk down the hallway. Aaron watched her reach the door at the very end and step in, shutting it soundly behind her. He had never seen the woman before, let alone talked to someone in this complex besides the landlord. She couldn’t be older than him. She reminded him of a skittish mouse, never resting. 

 

Work was slow that day. 

 

On the twenty-fifth, he found ribbons in his couch cushions and muddy foot prints leading to his door. He didn’t sleep that night, only stared at the musket ball until the sun came rising over the horizon. 

 

Twenty-sixth, he decided to try to talk to Martha. He went to her apartment door with a box of cookies, knocked softly a couple times. She came to the door before he could lie a third knock, and took one glance at the cookies. He tried to smile. “I need some help.” 

 

Martha furrowed her brows at him, opened the door further and stood to her full height(which was still shorter than him) and spoke. “I have an hour before I have to pick my daughter up from school.” 

 

He sat uncomfortably on her couch, noticing the children’s drawings that stood out on one of the walls. She took the box of cookies from him and disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with iced tea in glass cups. _ The thick glass tearing his skin, a bead of crimson spilling down his thumb.  _ The drink was heavy, a new weight in his hands. Perspiration drizzled the outside. His hands became cold.  _ Cold lead, stained with dark, deep, blood.  _ She settled across from him. 

 

“What do you want to know?” 

 

He bit the inside of his mouth, setting the drink onto her coffee table. “The ghost.” 

 

She inhaled. Her hands shook against the cup as she took a long drink. “I don’t know all of it.” 

 

Aaron rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?” 

 

“It’s not my story. I’m only a part of it. If you wanted answers, you’d have to start with a name. Not my name. Not his name.” 

 

“His name?” Aaron felt this getting more complicated as it progressed. He couldn’t stop seeing the ribbons, all a royal blue, all dirty and well used. Hairs tangled with the thread. 

 

“Your friend’s name, of course.” He felt his heart skip a beat. His body tensed. Martha took a sip of her tea. Slow. The liquid went down her throat like syrup. Thick.  _ Mud, thick on his carpet in boot prints he’d never seen before.  _ His throat clenched. 

 

“I’m sorry, Miss Manning, I think I have somewhere I need to be.” He scrambled up, almost tripping over the rug. He ran to the door and closed it behind him, rushing to his apartment. Aaron let himself in, slamming the door and letting his weight fall against it’s hard surface. His breathing was heavy. He picked himself up and turned on the lights, only to be greeted by another person sitting at his kitchen table. 

 

A continental army uniform, drenched in red. Frazzled hair and muddy skin.  _ Hollow eyes _ . Aaron screamed. 

 

Aaron stayed against the door, unmoving. The person merely looked at him, black sockets of nothingness cutting into his soul. All he could do was stare back, unable to avert his gaze. Swirling, spinning, pits of black. Stabbing him. There was no escape. The ghost left. 

 

Aaron gasped for breath, standing in shock. One moment, there. Next moment, gone. Why was all of this happening to him? Aaron fell to the ground, hugging his knees to his chest. A tear slipped out of his eye, fell onto his shirt. Soon, he was crying. 

 

Maybe slept that night. Probably didn’t.

 


End file.
